


to you they crawl, body sprawl

by turnpikedarling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Stiles, Other, Roller Derby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnpikedarling/pseuds/turnpikedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn’t really sure when it starts, their weekly trip to the derby track. It just becomes routine. They go and sit at the top of the bleachers, listen to the clack of the wheels on the plastic-coated track, watch the girls fall and pop back up and wipe the dirt off their cheeks, the blood off their thighs. It’s easy to get lost in it, watching the team every Wednesday and wondering what it would be like, and Stiles just keeps doing it: keeping to themselves, picking favorite team members, thinking about buying a pair of their own skates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to you they crawl, body sprawl

**Author's Note:**

> genderqueer stiles does derby! just a little thing about finding a badass lady family and having a supportive boyfriend. i know nothing about roller derby. this is probably all wrong.
> 
> originally posted on tumblr [here](http://turnpikedarling.tumblr.com/post/78708915191/to-you-they-crawl-body-sprawl) (recording for posterity)! come say hi!

Stiles isn’t really sure when it starts, their weekly trip to the derby track. It just becomes routine. They go and sit at the top of the bleachers, listen to the clack of the wheels on the plastic-coated track, watch the girls fall and pop back up and wipe the dirt off their cheeks, the blood off their thighs. It’s easy to get lost in it, watching the team every Wednesday and wondering what it would be like, and Stiles just keeps doing it: keeping to themselves, picking favorite team members, thinking about buying a pair of their own skates. The last time they even owned any they were an awkward little kid teetering around in front of their parents, shrieking with joy in the driveway before falling over again and again and again.

Scott calls every Wednesday night on his way to his shift at the hospital when Stiles is in the car trying to work up the nerve to walk in.

“Babe, you should talk to them tonight,” he says every week, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice each time. “They’d love you, you know it.”

Stiles does know, but they don’t talk to them. They just watch from their spot near the door, pull their ponytail over their shoulder and frown at their split ends, tap their boots against the seat in front of them, slip out before it’s all over.

It’s just a nice little dream, Stiles thinks, and they’re happy with it like that.

///

Stiles is happy with it like that _for awhile_ , but it doesn’t last.

They start bringing Scott with them to the bouts. It’s rowdy every time, Stiles screaming and Scott watching wide-eyed, concerned, probably turned on. Definitely turned on, if the desperate handjobs in the Jeep after every scrimmage are any indication, Scott’s mouth on Stiles’ neck and hand shoved into their skirt and fingers wrapped tight around their dick until both of them are rutting against each other and fogging up the windows with their impatience.

“Oh my god,” Stiles yelps one Saturday. Scott’s sitting next to them as they point out all of their favorite girls, whispering feverishly in Scott’s ear.

“Look, see that blocker,” Stiles says, pointing over the rail guard. “That’s Ichabod Maim,” they sigh as she skates by, plain brown hair in a messy ponytail and falling out from under her helmet. “And Liplocked & Loaded, look,” Stiles yells, grabbing Scott’s hand. The girl that skates by is tall and blonde, her curls pinned tight under her helmet so no one can grab a hold of them. She hipchecks someone on the other team and laughs when she goes down hard, sticks out her tongue as her jammer smacks her on her ass.

“These girls are hardcore,” Scott whispers, voice filled with awe.

“And I’m not?” Stiles asks, fake-offended, crossing their legs over Scott’s.

“You could brawl with the best of them, babe,” he grins, and kisses the smile right off of Stiles’ mouth.

They finish the match like that, stay so long they don’t even notice when the bleachers clear out. They hold hands the whole time, and Stiles laughs full-bellied when Scott starts suggesting derby names for them.

“Femme Brulee,” Scott says.

“Taken,” Stiles answers.

“Sylvia Wrath,” Scott tries.

“Taken,” Stiles laments.

“Sonic Zoom? Bleedith Piaf? Cyndi Slaughter? Scarry Styles? Get it, because, like, it’s a play on Harry Styles and your name, but it’s scary.”

Stiles almost chokes. “How are you so good at - you know what,” they say, but it’s cut off by a hand slamming down on the rail in front of them.

“Those are all taken, sweetheart,” a very pretty but very intimidating redhead tells them, and Stiles’ mouth drops. 

“Oh my god, Wrathematics,” Stiles gasps, and all the tension drops out of the girl’s shoulders. She unwraps one of her wrist guards and sticks out her hand and smiles and it’s devastating. 

“Call me Lydia,” she quips. “Or just Matty. Nobody wants to say that mouthful,” she laughs.

“Why haven’t you tried out?” 

Stiles does a double take as another of his favorites, Bone & Marrow, skates up to the barrier and snaps her gum at them.

“Allison,” she says, popping her gum again and smiling down at them before repeating her question. “Seriously, why haven’t you tried out yet? We see you here at every bout. We know you sit at the back of the bleachers every time we hold tryouts. That’s almost as much dedication to this as we have, so we know you’re into it,” she adds, practical about it like it’s the weirdest thing in the world that Stiles isn’t already on the team.

Scott looks positively delighted when Allison flashes a smile at him.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” he tells the girls, grabbing Stiles’ hand again and squeezing.

“Me?” Stiles asks, “I don’t know. I never figured I’d be any good,” they say, and Lydia shuts that down almost faster than Stiles can even finish their sentence.

“Are you kidding me? Those limbs? I could whip you around a track better than I have my girlfriend whipped,” she laughs.

“Ayooo,” Ichabod Maim calls out, the sound echoing around the track as she rolls up behind Lydia and smacks a kiss to her cheek. “Cora,” she clarifies, wrapping her arms around Lydia and nodding at Scott and Stiles.

“So you coming or what?” Cora asks. She shoves a flyer at Stiles with her free hand. “Tryouts tomorrow. Lippy - ”

“Erica,” the blonde Stiles pointed out earlier cuts in, skating up and joining them.

“Lippy,” Cora continues belligerently, rolling her eyes, “is hosting them here at noon. Be here.”

Stiles listens.

///

It comes as no surprise that Stiles makes the team.

In the locker room after tryouts, Allison whips her bra over her head and as she’s pulling on a shirt she says, “Hey, what pronouns do you prefer?” Stiles shrugs out of their sweatshirt and tells her, a smile plastered on their face the whole time.

A couple of days before their first bout, Cora hands them a uniform shirt and threatens, “Make sure your skirt isn’t longer than your fingers, kid,” and wraps her arm around their shoulders, squeezes tight. “What’s your name gonna be?”

Stiles smiles, curls their fingers around their laces as they thread them through the skate’s holes. “Jackie OBashes.”

“Oh shit,” Erica says, swinging through the room and skidding to a halt. “You classy bitch,” she laughs, and Lydia blows them a kiss for approval.

Stiles skates as a blocker for awhile but when Lydia breaks her wrist they go in as a jammer. They spend a week getting whipped around the track and they love every minute of it, love the speed their long legs get them for their trouble. Stiles topples into their teammates’ arms at the end of every bout, feels at home in the middle of their sweaty happy bodies, wears their scrapes and scars like badges and lets Scott kiss them closed at night when they shimmy out of their skirt and knee pads and fall into bed without showering. 

They grow out their hair and start french braiding it. On bout days, Erica twists black and white ribbons through it and Lydia smudges black liner under their eyes like a battle cry. 

They drag Scott along to the diner after every match for milkshakes and shit talk and they spend hours and hours sitting in booths feeling like one of the girls with Scott’s arm slung loose around their neck, cold linoleum floor under their heels, thighs sticking to the plastic seats in the dead of summer.

When the team makes it to championships, Stiles takes their place on the starting line and nods up at the crowd. Scott’s there with a sign bigger than he can carry so he recruited the Sheriff to hold one side, and it says _STILES IS JUST MY STYLE_ in glitter pen scrawled across the front. Stiles puts their head down - breathes in and lets it out, feels the weight of the joy they feel sitting on their shoulders - waits for the ref’s whistle, and skates.


End file.
